A Temporary Fix
by ficwriterjet
Summary: This is where my imagination went after watching Season 3 Episode 9 'The Eternity Injection'. In this story Joan decides to call Mistress Felicia when Sherlock admits he's feeling down. WARNING: Consensual therapeutic spanking of an adult male by his mistress.


**Author's Note:** This is what I imagined happening during Elementary S3E9 'The Eternity Injection'. The first few lines come directly from the show. Written January 2015

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.

**Warning:** Consensual therapeutic spanking of an adult male by his mistress.

A TEMPORARY FIX

"If you must know Watson I've been feeling a bit down lately," Sherlock said. "It's the process of maintaining my sobriety. It's tedious. Two years in, and I find myself asking is this it? Sobriety is simply a grind. It's a leaky faucet that requires constant maintenance, and in return offers only not to drip."

Joan listed off all the things he had to live for, and while he agreed, it simply didn't seem enough anymore.

He sat down and said, "I used to imagine that a relapse would be a climax to some grand drama. Now I think that if I were to use drugs again it would be an anti climax. A surrender to the incessant drip, drip, drip of existence."

Joan sat across from him and said sincerely, "I'm sorry you're feeling this way. What can I do to help? Did you want to talk some more? Would you like me to spend the night?"

"No, that's not necessary. I shan't be using drugs this evening."

"What about your friend, the Mistress? I could call her for you."

"No," he said with a tired sigh. "I'm not in the mood, and even if I was, I don't have the energy."

"I think it might do you a lot of good to call her. You're the one who showed me that study about decreased levels of depression in masochists and submissives who have regular appointments with their dominants."

He scowled at her and said, "It wasn't from an accredited scientific journal, and I'm not a masochist."

"Hmmm." Joan hummed, and got her cell phone out.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting some advice from an expert," she said.

"You aren't calling her, are you?"

Joan held up a finger to quiet him, and when someone answered her call, she said, "Hello, Mistress Felicia, this is Joan Watson, Sherlock's friend."

"I said I'm not in the mood." Sherlock hissed at her, and got up to pace.

Joan ignored him and continued talking on the phone as if he hadn't spoken. "I'm calling you for a bit of advice. Sherlock has been depressed lately. I don't know how long it's been going on, but I'd guess at least a week if not more. He's stopped going to meetings, and tonight he called his sobriety a leaky faucet that he had to continually mend. In your professional opinion, do you think having a session would help ease his depression, or make it worse?"

The man in question stopped pacing, crossed his arms, and scowled at her, awaiting the verdict. A few seconds later, Joan said, "I see," and then, "Yes he's right here."

She held the phone out to him. He pursed his lips in annoyance, took the phone, covered the mouthpiece so the Mistress couldn't hear, and whispered harshly, "You're supposed to be my friend, not my sober companion. If I'd known you were going to manipulate the situation, I wouldn't have told you how I was feeling."

Joan tried not to let the hurt show on her face, and simply gestured to the phone.

With a defeated sigh, Sherlock answered, "Hello, Mistress."

"Sherlock, it's been a long time. I hear you've been unhappy lately."

"Yes, Mistress." Sherlock turned his back on Joan, unable to face her while having this conversation.

"Are you back at the brownstone?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"I see. And how long has it been since you've had a session?"

Hedging, he said, "Quite a long while."

"More than two months?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Exactly how long has it been?"

He closed his eyes, and his voice was barely above a whisper when he said, "Six months."

"My poor boy," she said sympathetically. "Now you think very carefully before you answer this next question. I don't want to hear explanations, only a yes or a no, and I want an _honest_ answer. Do you think having a session would make your depression worse?"

He was itching to tell her all the reasons he didn't want a session, but their relationship didn't work that way. After a lengthy pause he said with irritation, "No, Mistress."

"Good boy. Please give the phone back to Joan."

He was tempted to toss it across the room, but kept himself in check.

Once Joan had it, she listened for a minute, and then said, "Yes, I think that would be just fine. I'll let him know."

She hung up, looked up at Sherlock and said, "She'll be here in an hour."

"Well that's just perfect, Watson!" He said sarcastically, and gestured wildly towards the stairs. "What about Kitty?"

"Kitty?" she asked.

"Yes Kitty!" He gestured towards the stairs again.

"Wait. Are you telling me she doesn't know?" Joan couldn't keep the shock out of her voice.

"No!"

Not understanding how that was possible, she said, "The first day I arrived in this house, there were handcuffs and a belt on your ladder, and a mistress leaving your building."

"Yes, well that was an entirely different situation, now wasn't it. I was trying to scare you off. I hadn't hired you. I didn't know you. I didn't want a sober companion. And…"

"And?" Joan prompted.

Sherlock looked away, and said, "Due to the violent nature of her attack, I decided it best to keep that part of myself hidden from Kitty."

Joan stood up, walked over to him, and put a hand on his arm. "She's smart enough to understand the difference."

"Smart enough yes. Emotionally stable enough to deal with it… Certainly not at first."

"It's very sweet of you to try and protect her. Do you want me to make excuses, and get her out of here for the night?"

If things went the way he assumed they would tonight, it would be impossible for Kitty not to notice his stiff and slow movements the next day, which would ironically be due to the observational skills he'd given her. He shook his head. "No. I'll tell her. But maybe she could spend the night at yours?"

"Sure."

# # #

Twenty minutes later, Kitty was packing an overnight bag, while chiding Sherlock for not telling her sooner. Ten minutes after that, Sherlock had the brownstone to himself.

He made some tea, and fretted over what might or might not happen once Mistress Felicia arrived. He glowered into his coffee when he realized just the thought of a session already had distracted him from his depressing thoughts on sobriety. He muttered, "How very pedestrian."

A knock on the door jolted him out of his thoughts. He took a deep breath, and went to answer the door.

"Hello, Mistress," he said, and gestured for her to come inside.

She stepped in, put a hand on the side of his face, and said, "It's good to see you, Sherlock."

"It's good to see you, too," he said sincerely. When she let her hand drop, he shut and locked the door behind them.

She set down the small duffel bag she'd brought, and took off her long overcoat, revealing a black corset with forest green lace and matching panties. Her thigh high nylons made Sherlock's eyes zone in on the small expanse of bare thigh between the nylons and the panties, her flawless brown skin always gave him the urge to reach out and touch, but he resisted. Instead, he said, "You look lovely as always."

"Thank you." She handed him her overcoat, which he hung neatly in the closet.

"Are we alone?" she asked.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Let's go talk in the living room." Having been there several times in the past, she led the way, leaving her bag where it was. She sat in the middle of the couch, and gestured towards the floor by her feet. "On your knees."

A grumpy little huff came out of his mouth as he knelt by her feet.

She put both her hands on the sides of his face, and pulled him closer until the side of his face was pressed against her lap, and then she tilted his head so he was looking up at her. She ran her fingers through his short hair, and said, "Six months." She made a tisking noise, and said, "That's much too long, my sweet boy."

"I was…"

"No," she said, gently cutting him off. She continued to pet his head and said, "The why isn't important. I'm sure you had your reasons. I'm sure they were mostly legitimate. I'm also sure you suffered because of it."

He frowned, but didn't dispute her statement.

"I hate to think of you suffering in silence. I think a session would help you feel a little better. Do you agree?"

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Yes, Mistress."

"Would you like it to be me, or should I call someone else?"

"I'd prefer you, but if you have other obligations, I'd like for you to arrange someone you trust for me."

"I'm free all night, and I'd always prefer to take care of you myself."

"It's settled then." He felt a tiny bit of relief now that the decision had been made, and let himself enjoy her touch.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. He kept his eyes closed and focused on the feeling of her hands gently massaging his head, neck, and eventually his shoulders. When her hands left his body, he opened his eyes.

"I want you to strip, fold your things neatly, and kneel back on the floor by my feet."

He quickly and efficiently did as she'd asked, stacking his clothes on a small armchair. Once he was naked, and back on the ground, she petted him some more. She said softly, "I think what you really need is a good cry." He opened his mouth to protest, and she added, "No I haven't forgotten the debate we had about that, I'm simply giving you my opinion."

After a few seconds, he said wistfully, "I wish it were that easy. Have a cry and be done with it."

She patted his shoulder. "We're going to do the next best thing. I'm going to work you over until you're too sore to think about much else."

His entire body shuddered.

"I know," she cooed sympathetically. "Not your favorite. But I don't think the usual bondage with a few smacks is going to suffice this time. Certainly not if you've been so depressed that you're not going to meetings."

"We could try the usual and see how it goes," he said hopefully, but he doubted she would agree.

"Next time."

He whined.

"Don't fret my little one, it will be over soon, and then we can talk. Stand up." Once he was up she said, "Go get me the cane."

His eyes opened wide with surprise, and he said, "But… this isn't punishment. I've done nothing wrong."

"You're right," she agreed. "It's not a punishment."

"Then why the cane? You know I hate it."

"It's what you need."

He scowled. "Need is an inaccurate term in this instance. I need air to breathe, I don't _need_ to be hit with the cane." She stood up, and stared him down. He quickly muttered, "Sorry, Mistress." When she continued to look seriously displeased, he said, "Pain in and of itself isn't something I like. We both know this, so I don't see why…"

She pointed to the other side of the room and said calmly, "Corner. Five minutes."

"But…"

"Six minutes."

He silently glared at her.

She raised an eyebrow and said, "Seven minutes."

"Fine!" He stalked to the indicated corner, and automatically clasped his hands behind his head, and made sure each of his elbows was touching a wall.

She walked up behind him, put her mouth right next to his ear and said, "That little display raised it to ten minutes."

He pursed his lips but said nothing.

She glanced at the clock to check the time, and then said, "I have all night little boy. If you'd like to continue to argue, nit-pick, and talk back, you can spend a significant portion of the evening in the corner. Do you think that sounds enjoyable?"

"No, Mistress," he said immediately. He loathed standing in the corner, and she knew it, which made it quite an effective punishment for small things.

"I suggest you use your corner time to get yourself sorted. If something is truly wrong, you use your safeword. If not, you will be respectful, and obedient. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"I know you don't like the cane. Liking it or disliking it is irrelevant when I've asked you to get it for me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mistress," he capitulated.

She went back to the couch, and kept an eye on the time.

Sherlock spent the next ten minutes reminding himself of the many conversations he'd had with Mistress Felicia about control, and what it meant to give up control for a specified amount of time. He knew from experience that it would give him a certain inner peace to follow orders, especially orders he didn't particularly like, he just hated the fact that this was the best way for him to get that.

"Time's up," she said. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the spot on the floor by her feet.

He swiftly got back into a kneeling position, and looked up at her expectantly. She put her fingers on his chin to hold his head in place, and said, "Are you ready to be respectful and obedient?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said sincerely.

She nodded, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. She said softly, "Alright then, go get the cane or use your safeword."

Sighing, he stood, went upstairs, and got it out of his closet. He brought it back down, and handed it to her with a pout.

"Good boy. Bend over the table, please."

He grimaced, but got into position, holding onto the other side of the table to keep himself in place.

She set the cane down on the table next to him, and let her hands roam over his back, his ass, and his thighs to calm him. After a few moments of touching, she said, "Just a short warm up." She patted his bottom once in warning, and then smacked him fairly hard with the flat of her hand.

He took a deep breath, and exhaled, preparing himself for the pain.

A couple of minutes later, when his ass and upper thighs were light pink, she stopped spanking.

Sherlock sighed with relief when she stopped, but then immediately tensed up again when she picked up the cane.

She rubbed his back with one hand and said, "Let's get this part out of the way. Only six, unless you get out of position. Count them please."

He gripped the table harder, and gave a tiny nod of acceptance, more to himself than to her.

The sound of the swish registered in his ears just before the crack of rattan hitting flesh. An involuntary grunt came out of his throat at the initial impact, and he sucked some air through his teeth to ride out the second wave of pain before attempting to call out a number. He could tell she'd hit his ass dead center with equal force on both the left and right side, and as usual, he couldn't help but be impressed by her skill, even in this moment.

He cleared his throat to make sure his voice would be steady, and said, "One."

She ran her hand up and down his back a couple of times, and said, "Good boy. Five more."

The next stroke landed just under the first. He had the same reaction as before, but it took a bit longer for him to call out, "Two."

The third stroke landed a bit lower still. He groaned loudly, and let go of the table long enough to slap his hand on the table a couple of times as the pain washed over him. He internally cursed himself for agreeing to this, and cursed her for deciding on the cane, and told himself it was ridiculous to try and fix depression with pain. "Three!" His voice came out a bit more forceful and irritated than he'd intended. He coughed once, and repeated the word with less attitude. "Three, that was three."

Sherlock was met with silence for a few seconds, causing him to worry and shift his feet, but he stayed in place. Eventually, she ran her hand gently over the marks on his ass. He tensed and forced himself not to squirm.

"My poor unhappy boy. I know this is difficult and unpleasant, and you're doing very well so far. For the next three, I want you to close your eyes and think about why you haven't been going to meetings. All those nasty depressing thoughts that make you want to give up should be going through your head while I cane you. Can you do that for me?"

After a short pause he whispered, "Yes, Mistress."

"Good boy." She patted his back once, and then took her hand off him, to give him time to get his thoughts on track.

He thought about the things he'd said to Joan. The same things he'd been thinking for months. The routine of sobriety had worn him down to the place where it seemed pointless to continue if the only reward was being able to say he was still sober.

He heard the swish a millisecond before he felt the next blow of the cane. A surprised and pain filled, "Ah!" came out of his mouth, but the grip he had on the table kept him from automatically standing up. He went up on the balls of his feet, and bounced them up and down a couple of times to try and deal with the pain without letting go of the table. His voice was strained, but not angry when he said, "Four."

She ran a hand across his back a couple of times and said, "Good job. Only two more." She let go and gave him some time.

He knew from experience that the next stroke was going to land right at the crease between rear end and thighs, and the last stroke would be on his upper thighs. It was quite difficult to get his mind away from anticipating the increased pain, and back to his dark thoughts about existence, but he diligently worked on it.

He was thinking about the repetitive nature of the stories other people told at the meetings, and how they grated on his tolerance, when the next blow came.

"Aaah!" he yelped, and his entire body struggled against staying in position. He rocked his hips, bounced on his feet, shook his head a few times, and muttered, "Ow, ow, ow." After letting go of the table in a couple of self-aborted attempts to reach back and rub out the pain, he took a deep breath, gripped the table even harder than before, and said, "Five."

She reached out and ran her hand over his head, petting him for a few moments. "Such good boy. Almost done. Only one more."

He felt her hand leave his back, and told himself to think about his depression, but found it almost impossible to keep the thought of that last stroke landing on his thighs out of his head.

After watching him silently scowl and fidget for a few moments, she said, "Tell me how you described your sobriety to Joan tonight."

He stopped fidgeting, and said, "I compared my sobriety to a leaky faucet that continually needed maintenance. I explained how tedious the entire process has become. I said the biggest threat to my sobriety isn't some catastrophic event, but the endlessly banal routine of keeping myself under control. I…" The swish and crack of the cane landing on his upper thighs jolted all thought out of his mind for a millisecond. "…Aaah!"

He stamped his foot a couple of times to try and jiggle the pain away, and quickly got out the word, "Six!" so it could be over.

She set the cane down on the table beside him, and ran a hand over his hair. "You don't always have to keep yourself under control, little one. Are you in control of what happens tonight, or have you given that control to me for now?"

"I've given it to you." His body slowly relaxed as she continued to pet him and run her hands across his head and back.

"Doing that regularly will make it so much easier for you to accept and even enjoy the time when you do have control."

He took a deep breath to relax further and murmured, "Yes, I know you're right."

"Alright, this part is done. You may stand up."

He stood, and very carefully felt the stripes on his bottom with a wince. "That's very painful."

"Yes, I'm sure it is." She picked up the cane and held it out to him. "Go put this away while I get things ready in the living room."

He gave the living room a wary glance, wondered what she was getting ready, and then took the cane from her. When he came back downstairs, he found the mistress taking his favorite locking leather cuffs out of her bag. The familiar items helped him relax a fraction.

She gestured to the left side of the couch and said, "Stand right here by the arm." Once he was in place she held out her hand and said, "Wrists."

He always enjoyed bondage, and felt the corners of his mouth tilting up as he held out both arms for her. She buckled a cuff to each wrist, and then fastened them together. She went back to her bag, and got out a small length of chain with clasping eye-hooks on both ends. She clasped one eye-hook to the metal ring on the left leather cuff, and then said, "put your wrists on the arm of the couch."

He leaned down, and put his bound wrists on the arm of the couch. She wrapped the loose end of the chain around the back foot of the couch, and pulled it taut. She clasped the eye-hook to the middle of the chain, tethering him to the couch. She yanked on the chain once to make sure it was going to stay in place, and then went back to sit in the middle of the couch.

Sherlock watched her sit, and a sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

She looked him in the eye, patted her lap once, and said, "Over my lap."

He opened his mouth to remind her that he hated being over anyone's lap, and to say that he'd had more than enough pain to last him at least a month, but thought better of it at the last second. She'd never asked him to go across his lap before, specifically because he'd told her he disliked it. She wasn't the type to forget that sort of thing. Which meant she'd done it on purpose. Now he had a choice; use his safeword because the position was too upsetting, or comply with her request. Instead he chose option three; whining. He gave her a pleading look and said, "I'm already very sore, Mistress."

"Would you like another ten minutes in the corner first?" she asked calmly.

Feeling sorry for himself, he muttered, "No, Mistress," and situated himself face down over the length of the sofa. His hips settled directly over her thighs, much to his irritation. He was a grown man, not a child, and he loathed the implications of being across someone's lap.

"Good boy." She used her fingers to gently trace each of the stripes on his ass. He let out a tiny hiss, and she said, "For the next few minutes, I'm going to use my hand to spank you. It isn't going to be any harder than the warm up I gave you earlier, and I'm not going to be hitting particularly fast, but it's going to hurt over these cane marks."

"Please don't," he begged.

She rubbed his back with one hand, and used the other to pet his head. "I know you hate this, but I have you over my lap for a reason. Can you guess what that reason is?"

His capability for logical thinking was diminished. "Because you're angry with me?" he guessed.

"No, sweet boy, I'm not angry, I'm disappointed. Disappointed that you didn't call me sooner, and disappointed that _you_ didn't call me at all."

He wasn't exactly new to disappointing people, but he still cringed when he heard her say it.

"I'm spanking you like this," she said, "because I care about you, and I want to see you happy. But you can't be happy if you ignore this part of yourself for too long. Tonight isn't a job for me. I won't take your money tomorrow. This is personal. When I needed your help with that murdered client, you rushed over to help me. Now I'm returning the favor by helping you."

Swirling emotions made his throat tight. This position was already uncomfortably personal, and her words on top of that made it impossible for him to push away his emotions. Her sincere and caring commitment to him and his wellbeing overwhelmed him, pushing back his feelings of guilt and dread for what was to come. He found himself honestly grateful that she cared about him, understood him, and wanted to help him, even though he hated what she was about to do.

"I… I don't know what to say."

"That's okay." She stopped petting his head, put one hand in the middle of his back, and set the other hand directly over his cane marks in the middle of his butt. He whimpered, and she continued, "While I spank you, I want you to tell me everything you've been thinking about and feeling over the past few weeks. I want to hear all of it, no matter how trivial, how dark, how angry, or mean-spirited. Get it all out, so we can cleanse your system of these thoughts. Do you understand what I want you to do?"

"Yes, Mistress."

She lifted her hand and gave him a spank that normally wouldn't have even made him flinch.

His body jumped, and a low disheartened groan came out of his mouth. The next few minutes were going to be awful. He took a deep breath and said, "It started about a month ago."

Another slap landed, and after an exclamation of pain, he continued to talk about his downward spiral into depression. For the next three and a half minutes, that pattern repeated it self. A slap, a vocalization, and then talking until eventually he'd gotten it all out. Midway through, he was shocked to realized there were tears on his cheeks, but soldiered on with his explanation. He wasn't sure she could even understand him by the time he was done because of the tears. He ended with the words; "It all seems completely pointless sometimes."

Once he stopped talking, he concentrated on crying. She continued to spank at the same pace until his crying sounded sincerely uninhibited. When she heard that, she finally stopped hitting, and rubbed soothing circles on his back. It didn't take long for his crying to turn into shuddered breaths and sniffling.

"My sad, misguided boy," she said. "Life is many things, but pointless isn't one of them." She patted his back and said, "I know you probably can't believe that right now, but that's okay, because tomorrow you'll be too distracted by the horrible pain in your bottom to worry about it."

For reasons he couldn't fathom, those words brought on a new bout of tears.

She patted his shoulder and said, "Alright little one, no more pain tonight. Let's get you uncuffed. Scoot your lower half onto the floor, so I can see to you."

Very slowly, and painfully, he maneuvered himself off her, and onto the floor. She made very short work of uncuffing him, and said, "Lay down on the couch."

He crawled up, got comfortable on his stomach, and tried to stop the trickle of tears. He was too focused on himself to notice what she was doing, until she was in front of him holding a box of tissues, two painkillers, and a glass of water.

He nodded his thanks, took the tissues, propped himself up on his elbows, and blew his nose a few times. When his nose was clear, he took the water, and the painkillers from her. He took a few small sips, and then swallowed the pills without comment.

After the pills were gone, she walked over to her bag, dug out a tube of Arnica cream, and went to sit on the edge of the couch next to his butt. He crossed his arms and used them as a pillow for his head so he could look back and watch her as she spread the cream over his welts as gently as possible.

When the cream was completely rubbed in, she tossed the tube towards her bag. She walked over to the armchair across the room where they kept a throw blanket, and said, "Can I use this?"

"Of course."

She picked it up, shook it out, and to his surprise she then covered him with it. She kicked off her heels, and said, "Scoot over, so I can lay down as well."

He shifted towards the back of the couch, and lifted up the blanket so she could get under it, too. She lay on her back, and then guided Sherlock's head down to rest on her chest. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a hug, and said, "How are you doing now?"

He hugged her back, and thought that over for a moment. "Better I think. Sore, tired, and worn out, but… better."

"Good." She took a deep breath, and said, "I'm glad."

They were both silent for several minutes, taking comfort in the other person's embrace. Sherlock's brain sluggishly started working again, and he realized he was fairly content in this moment. More content than he'd been for several weeks.

"Thank you, Mistress," he said sincerely.

She squeezed him tighter and said, "You're welcome my sweet boy. But for now I'd like you to try and get some rest. It's late, you've been through an ordeal, and you never get enough sleep anyway. We're going to lie here together quietly, and hopefully you'll fall asleep. Understood?"

"Yes, Mistress." He closed his eyes, and let his mind drift.

# # #

The next morning Joan and Kitty walked up the steps to the brownstone. Kitty reached out to open the door, but Joan put a hand over hers and said, "It's best to knock after a night like that."

"Oh. Right," Kitty agreed, and knocked on the door.

A few seconds later, Sherlock answered the door fully dressed, and smiling. "Good morning, Watson, Kitty. It's a wonderful morning to be preoccupied by the meaninglessness of existence, don't you think?"

The two women glanced at each other and shared a small smile. It was obvious that Sherlock's mood had drastically changed for the better since last night.

"Tea?" he asked.

Joan stepped in and said, "That sounds nice."

"I'll just put my things away first." Kitty said.

Once they were in the kitchen, Sherlock and Joan worked comfortably together to get the tea ready. When the water was on the stove, he turned to her and said, "I believe an apology is in order."

She gave him her full attention.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you last night when you called Mistress Felicia. You were right to do so, and I… well I said some hurtful things that were uncalled for."

"Apology accepted," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

He smiled ruefully back at her and said, "Logically I know it's a temporary fix, and physically I detest my weakness for these proclivities, but emotionally… Emotionally I feel better than I have in months. Life isn't tiresome today."

Kitty came into the room, got the milk out of the refrigerator, and said, "Joan gave me a standing invitation to stay with her anytime you need the brownstone to yourself."

"Thank you for being so understanding," he said.

She put the milk next to her waiting tea cup, and said, "After everything you've done for me, it's the least I can do. You should have told me earlier. Before you got out of sorts."

"Believe me, I wish I had."

The tea water boiled, and Sherlock took it off, and poured water in everyone's cups. Soon Joan and Kitty were sitting at the table while Sherlock stood by the counter discussing his new theory on their current case.

The End


End file.
